


Dress to Impress

by zjemciciastko



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjemciciastko/pseuds/zjemciciastko
Summary: “You really like my designs?” Valentino grimaces at the mere thought. “They’re awful. I make them awful purposefully, to prove a point that those celebrities who are known for the fact that they are known would wear anything as long as its popular. You’re not supposed tolikethem.”Valentino designs ugly clothes on purpose. Jorge actually likes them.





	Dress to Impress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jorgelorenzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jorgelorenzo/gifts).



> Dear Jazz, here's a little something for you. We've talked about this before, and we could be the only ones who like Jorge and Vale together haha. I hope you like it! I love you <3
> 
> I've had this idea for a while, but Jorge wearing this https://www.plein.com/pl/bomber-teddy-bear/A18C-MRB0899-PNY002N_0216.html?cgid=men-clothing-coats_and_jackets#page=8&start=4 jacket was the last straw. Jorge's fashion sense is to be blamed for this fic.

“Vale, I know you said you didn’t want to meet with anyone this week, but there’s someone who travelled here from Spain just for that. Maybe you could make some time for him?”

Valentino straightens his back, looking up from the sketch he’s working on, and puts the pencil down on the desk. It rolls off it, and he tries to catch it, but it hits the ground before he can, landing next to his left foot. 

Marc is standing in the doorway of his office, a paper calendar in one of his hands, phone in the other. He has those puppy eyes on, and it’s all Valentino needs to know that his assistant is plotting something, but he props his elbows on the desk and asks anyway. “Who is it?”

“It’s Jorge Lorenzo,” Marc says, but the name doesn’t ring any bells. “He’s a MotoGP rider, a very good one. Multiple world champion. And he likes your clothes,” he adds, scrunching his nose. 

Ah, bikes. That’s why Marc decided to ask in the first place. 

Valentino’s well aware of Marc’s love for motorcycles. And the extent of it. When he gave Marc that jacket with a bike covering half of its back, his own, good design, the hug he received was so tight he thought some of his ribs could’ve been broken. So he’s not surprised Marc would want him to meet that Jorge guy. And while Valentino knows Dovizioso, everyone in Italy has heard of him, he never bothered with the Spanish guys. Andrea wins with them, anyway. 

“You’re a fan of someone who likes my designs? Questionable choices, Marc,” Valentino teases, grinning at the flush on Marc’s cheeks.

“He’s a good rider,” is Marc’s comeback. He shrugs, probably thinking that Jorge’s choices are much more questionable than his own. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Valentino bends down to pick the pencil up from the ground, twirling it between his fingers, “You want me to sacrifice the time I wanted to spend on working on my new collection because you want to meet this rider guy?”

Marc nods. He opens the calendar on the right page, then lays it in front of Valentino. “Pretty much, yeah. Thursday is fine with you?” 

_Bold. I knew why I hired you._

On Thursday, Valentino’s schedule is empty. The name of some celebrity from the newest reality show hit is crossed out with bold, black marker pen. He doesn’t have anything else planned for the day, apparently, the page oddly blank compared to all the other ones. So there’s no reason to say no.

He considers dragging his decision out for a bit longer, just because, but it would be useless, probably. By this point, Marc knows him well enough to tell when Valentino’s words are a bluff. 

The pencil makes contact with the paper as he writes _Yorg Lorenzo_ next to four PM. “Fine,” he looks at Marc again, “You have it.”

He likes the kid too much.

*

Jorge Lorenzo is not what Valentino expected him to be.

He’s always had this headcanon, about motorcyclists being kind of like rock stars, wild, with lots of tattoos, and a supermodel hanging off their arm. Like Iannone, whose half-naked photos make it to the gossip columns of the biggest magazines from time to time. Valentino met the guy once, and it was enough to confirm all the stereotypes.

Jorge Lorenzo is none of those things. 

Jorge is at least ten centimetres shorter than him, his eyes at the level of Valentino’s lips. He doesn’t look particularly wild. He has no visible tattoos; the t-shirt he’s wearing (a hideous one, too long and a horrible colour that makes him look like he’s wearing a sack. Maybe even one of Valentino’s early designs.) reveals the skin of his arms, but it’s only marred by pale scars, not ink. There is no supermodel by his side, either, but Valentino can’t be sure there isn’t one waiting for Jorge outside. 

Extending a hand, Valentino grins and introduces himself. “Ciao. How can I help you?”

The grip is strong, indicating that Jorge is one of those people who know what they want. Good. It’ll be quicker this way.

“I would like you to design a collection for me. Nothing big. A jacket or two, a few t-shirts,” Jorge says after their palms are disconnected again. “Something nice.”

Valentino laughs heartily, no trace of malice in it. “That’s a lot to ask of for Halloween. I could make you a whole costume, though?” 

A devil would suit Jorge, he thinks. 

The look Jorge gives him is strange, and Valentino waits for him to laugh, too, but it doesn’t happen. There’s no amusement on Jorge’s face at all. “Wait, you’re serious?”

The nod is brief and Jorge’s voice is low when he speaks again. “I really like your designs. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can pay however much you want.”

Valentino hardly believes his own ears.

“You really like my designs?” He grimaces at the mere thought. “They’re awful. I make them awful purposefully, to prove a point that those celebrities who are known for the fact that they are known would wear anything as long as its popular. You’re not supposed to _like_ them.”

When Valentino first saw him, Jorge looked a sane guy. Now that he’s learned the reason behind the guy’s visit, he’s not so sure anymore. Jorge can’t _like_ his designs, because, like he said before, they’re awful. They’re not meant to be liked.

Jorge gets defensive immediately. “So you’re saying I have bad taste?” 

“Well.”

Valentino’s not going to lie.

It’s the wrong thing to say, though, as from then on, everything blows into a full argument, Jorge’s anger showing up and Valentino’s responses not much better. The noise of the door being slammed makes Valentino cringe as he looks at it in disbelief. 

He’s not getting any more work done today. 

*

Despite the fiasco that their first meeting turned out to be, Jorge Lorenzo still wants Valentino to design a collection for him. 

Valentino finds the guy in his office on a Tuesday morning, way too early, drinking from his favourite cup and browsing through the sketchbook where Valentino’s newest ideas are stored. For a few seconds, he stands there petrified, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. Unsuccessfully. It takes a moment, but he finally regains the ability to move, and snatches the sketchbook from Jorge’s hands. 

That smug expression is irking him more that he’d like.

“What are you doing?” Valentino growls, trying to keep his anger under control and not commit murder on the spot.

Jorge takes another sip of his drink, the porcelain clinking when he puts the cup down. “Waiting for you, obviously.” 

_Obviously._ It’s spoken in such a way that reminds Valentino of talking to an insolent child. And in this scenario, apparently he’s the child.

Valentino takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. It’s too early for homicide, too many people around to witness him trying to get rid of the body. “I’m surprised you’re here. I didn’t think we had anything to talk about after the last time.”

“You’re an asshole,” Jorge tells him, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair, “But I still want those clothes.” 

Technically speaking, Valentino could get the security to throw him out. He doesn’t even have to call them, there’s that button under his desk made especially for situations involving danger. But Jorge isn’t acting strangely and he isn’t trespassing, either; Valentino’s sure that it was Marc, that little shit, who let him in. So he doesn’t really have a reason to get anyone here. 

Sitting down, he regards Jorge attentively. He looks a bit better than the last time, but his style is still questionable at best. “So, what do you want?” Valentino asks, expecting a precise request, like how those celebrities usually are.

“Like I said before, a jacket, three t-shirts, a pair of joggers maybe. Make it good,” Jorge says, his voice certain, but the request mostly vague. 

“Underwear too?” 

Valentino can’t resist that tease, slipping through his lips smoothly. And Jorge’s face reddening is the best prize for him, colour spreading over those cheekbones. 

He opens his sketchbook on the first blank page, the tip of the pencil hovering above the paper, as he waits for a reaction. It takes a bit of time before Jorge regains his composure, his ability to speak coming back, and the _no_ sounds almost like a bark.

The smirk doesn’t leave Valentino’s lips for the entirety of their meeting as he scribbles on the paper, first ideas already forming. 

Maybe he could have some fun with it. 

*

Next time, Jorge appears just on time, not a minute early, not a minute late.

Valentino breaks away from the article he was reading, putting the phone away. Today, Jorge doesn’t look as bad as the last time, he notes, the simple black jacket and jeans an outfit millions of people would wear. But at least it’s nothing obnoxious, so he probably should count it as an improvement. 

“Go undress,” Valentino says, grabbing the measuring tape from his pocket when Jorge’s ready to take a seat, felling a little too comfortable for Valentino’s liking. He still remembers Jorge drinking from hid favourite cup and going through his sketchbook. 

Jorge pauses mid-motion and smirks. “I didn’t think you were that type of person who would make sexual propositions to their clients.”

The grimace on Valentino’s face can’t be pretty. 

“I’m not. I need to measure you so the clothes fit,” he explains his motives, allowing his eyes to wander over Jorge’s silhouette. “Are you disappointed?” 

He lets his voice drop for the last sentence, almost leering.

Jorge huffs, turning on his feet, and Valentino considers it a victory when the door to the adjoining bathroom is slammed, rather than closed normally. 

For the next few minutes, he’s sitting idly on the desk, tapping fingers on it. He has some ideas for the designs, some he himself would never wear, but Jorge might like. Skulls, obviously. Colours that are hardly flattering on anyone, as Jorge seems to like those. Maybe some unconventional mix of fabric, too. He’ll have to think about it.

But first, he needs to know the exact size those clothes need to be, so he hops off the desk when he sees the door opening again, Jorge coming in. 

Jorge stands in the middle of the room, rubbing his arm. He’s looking at the floor, and more than anything, he seems uncomfortable, Valentino thinks. He doesn’t understand why, though. A quick glance at Jorge’s body tells him there’s nothing to be embarrassed with. 

(Although he wouldn’t be caught admitting it.)

Valentino covers those few steps separating them, stopping right in front of Jorge. “Stand still,” he says, wrapping the measuring tape around Jorge’s neck.

Jorge pulls on it, their fingers brushing accidentally when Valentino is done adjusting it. “Are you trying to suffocate me?” he asks. 

His expression is fully serious, not the slightest twitch of his lips visible. 

_Dry humour, huh? Nice._

“ I wish,” Valentino sighs, as if actually considering it. “But Marc is a terrible liar, he’d out me accidentally. And prison colours are hardly my fave.”

At that, Jorge actually chuckles. “I’m sure he would. That kid can’t shut up for five seconds.”

That chuckle is actually a nice sound. Deep, rumbling in Jorge’s chest. Valentino likes it. There might be even the tiniest of smiles there, if his eyes are not deceiving him. 

He can’t control his grin fully as he writes the circumference of Jorge’s neck in the notebook, then moves on to Jorge’s arms. “He’s good at scaring the telemarketers off, he talks more than them.” 

“Is that what you wanted him to do to me? Scare me off, so I don’t come back?”

 _Exactly that,_ Valentino thinks. Jorge might be smug and good god, there has to be something wrong with his eyes, if he likes those awful clothes (Shouldn’t MotoGP riders go through some eye test?). But Valentino finds himself laughing nonetheless, genuinely amused. 

“You’ve seen through me,” he says, wrapping the tape around Jorge’s chest now. “Arms a little higher.”

Obediently, Jorge follows the command. 

Valentino strikes a casual conversation as he’s taking Jorge’s measurements, asking about the last race, amused by the bragging that follows. He gets to hear about things he hardly knows anything about, the tyres and strategies, but at the same time recognises some of the stuff Jorge is talking about; Marc’s constant chatter didn’t go to waste. 

It’s when Valentino has all of Jorge’s upper body measured that he rises an eyebrow, a challenge in his voice. “You’ll have to take your pants off, too.”

There are a few things happening on Jorge’s face. There’s bewilderment, both his eyes and mouth open, then there’s incredulity, before it finally turns into anger, his lips pressed tightly. 

“Maybe you should take off yours,” Jorge murmurs, his annoyance slipping into each syllable.

Valentino winks at him. “Not even a dinner first?” He laughs at Jorge’s face that’s a mixture of surprise and horror, and places a hand on Jorge’s shoulder. “I mean, I need to measure your hips and legs, too. You don’t want the clothes to be too tight, do you?” 

Jorge frowns, shaking his head. Valentino could swear he was saying something, but it was too quiet for him to catch it. 

The rest of the meeting goes almost without any incidents. Valentino feels like he’s teased the guy enough. They chat a little, a snarky remark exchanged here and there, while Valentino wraps the measuring tape around Jorge’s body, noting everything down. 

There’s only one more remarkable moment, when he’s supposed to check the circumference of Jorge’s ankle.

Valentino kneels, sitting on his heels so his back doesn’t kill him for treating it without enough care. He bends a little, but doesn’t manage to get the task done before he hears a voice from above him.

Jorge opens his mouth, but what comes out, is not what Valentino expected to hear. “On your knees for me already? You don’t need that dinner, after all.”

There’s this smugness again, and it’s certain that Jorge recovered from whatever embarrassment he could’ve felt a little earlier. He puts one hand on his hip and rises an eyebrow in what Valentino interprets as clear challenge. 

“You wish,” he counters, wrapping the tape around Jorge’s leg too tightly with full intent.

Jorge smirks. Valentino knows he lost that round. 

*

After Jorge leaves, Valentino knows he won’t be able to focus on anything. For a while, at least. So he decides to take a little break, move his old bones, take a walk. Even if it’s around the building. He doesn’t dare going out now, in case someone recognised him and that would be the end of his break. 

He wanders over to where Marc is sat, engaged in his phone rather than the work. “Texting your boyfriend?”

Marc pouts. “You know he’s not my boyfriend yet. But,” he adds, visibly more excited now, “I have a date tonight.”

 _Finally_ is what Valentino wants to say; he’s had to listen to Marc fawning over the guy for so long that he’s surprised it lead to anything at all. He’s happy for Marc, of course, but he’s already dreading having to hear about the new love of Marc’ life even more that up until now. 

He steals one of Marc’s chocolates and sighs. “At least you have something nice happening to you today.” 

Marc throws the wrapper back at him after Valentino tries to give it to him. “What? Jorge not treating you right?” he puts the strain on the last word, waggling his eyebrows, before breaking into a fit of cackles. 

“I can’t believe this guy,” Valentino murmurs, throwing the hands in the air. “You’d think he’d never show up again after I said he had bad taste.”

Marc grins. “You like him.”

“Marc,” Valentino gives him a look, “He likes my designs.”

“So?” Marc shrugs, not affected, “You still like him.” He makes a full turn on the swivel chair, accidentally knocking one of the binders from the desk, and smiling sheepishly when Valentino rises a brow. 

“I don’t like Jorge. But he’s amusing when he’s arguing with me.”

He likes teasing Jorge, that’s true. He doesn’t really like the _guy,_ because Jorge’s been nothing but grumpy and demanding all this time. So that’s what he tells Marc. 

Marc looks like he doesn’t believe a word. 

*

Okay, maybe he likes Jorge a little bit. 

It’s not something Valentino wants to admit, certainly not out loud, but these days he’s actually looking forward to their little meetings. Exchanging snarky comments with Jorge is more fun than he anticipated it would be. He’d never tell Marc that, obviously, but he thinks Jorge isn’t all that bad.

When Jorge appears, there’s a scowl on his face, twisting his features. One of the kind Valentino hasn’t seen in quite some time. He’s also wearing one of those scarves he seems to love, pulled up to his chin, and even the obnoxious pattern doesn’t make Valentino’s eyes hurt that much. 

He greets Jorge, ready to start their teasing routine. “Well, aren’t you all sunshine and rainbows today?”

Jorge doesn’t even react to the jab, and that makes Valentino think. He doesn’t say anything, he probably doesn’t have any right to, but he gives Jorge a closer look. Nothing seems off, at the first glance at least. Valentino shrugs it off, blaming it on Jorge waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

He waits for Jorge to take the clothes off, not failing to notice how Jorge’s movements look kind of strained, how there’s a scowl on Jorge’s face whenever he moves his left arm. 

Now, Valentino is sure that something is wrong.

Jorge struggles with stripping the jacket off, and Valentino catches himself just in time not to reach out and help. He clenches his fist, ready to ask what is going on, but at the same time, expecting no reply in return. Jorge would just shrug it off, probably. Seems too proud to admit any weakness. So Valentino needs a different strategy, something that would stop Jorge from wincing in pain without additional hurt to his pride. 

“We can postpone the meeting,” Valentino tells him, surprised at the hint of worry that has crept into his own voice.

Jorge stops all of his movements, his face nothing but incredulous. It’s not said out loud, but it’s definitely there, the _did you really just suggest that?,_ and Valentino almost squirms under the harshness of Jorge’s gaze. It doesn’t leave any room for negotiation. 

Jorge shakes his head, adamant, and pulls on the edge of his shirt to take it off. “No, let’s do this.”

The shirt lands on the chair, revealing the reason behind Jorge’s behaviour. There are multiple bruises scattered all over his body, various shades of purple, yellow, and green, forming irregular splotches of colour. Valentino cringes, because that must hurt, as hell, and he really doesn’t think it’s the best idea to let Jorge try the clothes on today. 

There’s no point in arguing, though. If he’s learned one thing about Jorge, it’s that the man’s stubbornness is bigger even that his pride. And that’s saying something. 

Grabbing the clothes from the rack, Valentino gives the first shirt to Jorge. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

Watching Jorge move is almost painful in itself. It’s clear that he is in pain and refusing to let it show, only an occasional frown, not much different from his usual one, showing up, and a tiny hiss when he has to put his arm through the sleeve. All his movements are also slower than normally, softer, and Valentino’s hands itch to help. He knows Jorge will most likely get mad, but he can’t look at it anymore. 

Gently, Valentino tugs on the fabric, pulling it down Jorge’s torso. There’s some more adjustments he does, for which he gets an annoyed glance in return, but at least there seems to be no pain twisting Jorge’s features now. Good enough.

“I can do it on my own,” Jorge grumbles.

Valentino picks up the loose thread from his shoulder. “You sure? You can’t choose good clothes on your own, how can I know you can do anything else?” he teases, holding the pants out to Jorge.

Jorge grabs them, showing Valentino the finger.

The most difficult part is making it look like the help isn’t something Jorge really needs. Valentino teases him, jokes. It’s playful and makes his actions seem less meaningful. It also gets him a snarky comment, spoken half-heartedly, like all the others have been after their initial hostility had thawed, so he’s relieved. And since there’s no more protest, Valentino continues to help. He zips the jacket up, buttons the cuffs. Jorge seems a little less in pain than he was just a moment ago, so that’s all that matters. 

In no time, they manage to get Jorge fully dressed, the clothes fitting properly. 

Valentino drags the mirror in front of Jorge, glad he chose one with little wheels. “So, how do you like it?”

Jorge follows his own reflection in the mirror, his eyes pausing for a little longer on the skull located around the place where his heart should be. He turns a bit to the left, then right, to asses how the fabric fits his body. To see whether it’s right or not. In the end, he smiles a little after he completes the evaluation. 

He gives Valentino a small nod, satisfied. “Looks good.”

 _The clothes are horrible, but yes, you do,_ Valentino thinks.

*

Valentino smoothens the sleeve of the suit before hanging it on the rack, next to the jacket and the dark t-shirt. These are the last things Jorge ordered, all ready now, only waiting to be tried on. He’s managed to finish all of Jorge’s requests, no matter how ridiculous they were, and he’s even a bit proud of his work. They turned out better than he expected. 

But the thing is, with this finished project, comes the awareness that this is the last of Jorge’s visits.

Uncharacteristically, Jorge’s late today. Valentino glances at his own watch every two minutes or so, unable to stop checking the time. He even asks Marc if he knows what is going on half an hour later. Marc doesn’t, so Valentino grabs himself another cup of coffee, and waits. He clicks the pen, as if it were the reason of Jorge’s tardiness, then throws it in the plastic container. His annoyance rises with every passing minute. 

It takes nearly an hour before Jorge arrives, dishevelled, the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, hair a mess. 

Valentino jumps up from the armchair, a sarcastic comment already on the tip of his tongue. One he doesn’t get to say, as there’s something off about Jorge again, something that makes Valentino pause with his mouth already half-opened. This time, Valentino knows it’s not an injury; it can’t be. He watched the last race. And the one before. He knows Jorge won, in a great style, too, and he isn’t even all that annoyed that Dovizioso was only third. 

The point is, there shouldn’t be anything off about Jorge. But there is.

“Ciao,” Valentino greets, carefully. 

There’s a nod and a quiet _hola_ in return, but it’s obvious Jorge isn’t in particularly high spirits today. He pulls a chair out, resting on it with his head thrown backwards, eyes focused on the ceiling. 

Valentino bites on his lip, fingers grabbing his earring. “I have everything ready.”

This quiet Jorge, barely speaking a word, is making him a bit uneasy. Valentino doesn’t remember saying anything particularly offensive to him last time. In fact, he doesn’t think he teased Jorge any more than he usually would, so this behaviour puzzles him even more. The only explanation he can think of is that he must’ve crossed some lines. 

It couldn’t have been his attempt at help, could it..?

“Mhm,” is Jorge’s response. He finally shifts to look at Valentino, but his eyes are exceptionally serious. “I’ll try them on.”

Wordlessly, Valentino gives him the hangers, then sitting again and propping an elbow on the armrest.

Jorge tries the clothes on, one by one. They’re a perfect fit, the patterns awful, but Jorge somehow makes them work. They’re unusual, eccentric and go well with Jorge’s quirky personality. It could be just Valentino’s biased view, but he likes Jorge in them. And he’s never liked anyone in his designs before. 

What is worrying him, is that after the last time, when his body was covered in various bruises, Jorge reverted to changing in the bathroom, like before.

When Jorge emerges from the bathroom again, dressed in his regular outfit, Valentino walks over to the rack, adjusting the lapels before he grabs the suit. “There’s one more left.”

He presents it to Jorge, the fabric dark and silky, tailored to fit the man’s silhouette perfectly. It’s really good, Valentino thinks, and not in the ironic way. One of his best designs, actually. And he really doesn’t want to acknowledge the way his stomach tightens while he’s waiting for the verdict, the yes or no.

Jorge gapes. His eyes are wide open, and he reaches a hand out to grab the suit. “I didn’t order this one.”

“I know,” Valentino acknowledges. It was his very own idea, after all. “This one’s for free. I heard you became a world champion and you have some gala to attend. Wear something nice for once,” he adds, playfully, at the end. 

To his surprise, Jorge looks kind of out of his depth. As if he hardly believed Valentino was giving something for free. As if he hardly believed Valentino was being nice to him. He goes to the bathroom with the same expression, and it takes a record time for him to re-emerge. 

And damn, Valentino was right about the suit being one of his best designs. It clings to the curves of Jorge’s body perfectly, hugging it just the right way. The colour flattens both his complexion and the shade of his eyes. Overall, it looks great; Valentino is unable to take his eyes off the man. 

“You look handsome,” he says, his voice light but not joking. 

Jorge turns to look at himself in the mirror, as if trying to judge whether Valentino’s laughing at him or giving a compliment. 

The knot in Valentino’s stomach gets tighter the closer he steps to Jorge, the less separating them. They’re standing side by side, the height difference now obvious again, him half a head taller. He smooths the fabric on Jorge’s chest with the palm of his hand, maybe letting it linger there for a bit longer than necessary. 

Jorge shifts, and he’s no longer looking at himself in the mirror, his neck craned to be able to gaze directly into Valentino’s eyes. There’s a challenge there, but also something else, lust but also some softness Valentino finds, picks up on. A silent request, maybe.

And he cannot resist it, cupping Jorge’s face, the man’s stubble prickly under his thumbs. “I meant it. You look good.” 

_Very._

And he’s nothing but honest. 

It must’ve shown, too, as Jorge smiles, sincerely, for the first time this day. That’s enough of a clue for Valentino. Sufficient. So he tilts his head and crashes their lips together.

The reaction is there instantly, Jorge pushing against him, teeth coming into play and fingers pulling on Valentino’s hair. It’s not a gentle kiss, on the contrary, it’s almost as if it was a competition, as if there was something to gain here and Jorge was fully intent on winning. And Valentino is not passive either, slipping his tongue into Jorge’s mouth and hands into the smaller man’s back pockets. 

That small moan he gets after squeezing Jorge’s ass feels like the greatest reward. 

When they break away, they’re both slightly out of breath, although Valentino noticeably more. He traces the outline of Jorge’s lips with his thumb, noticing how they’re a bit darker, a little swollen. There is a smirk playing around his own lips when he leans in to whisper in Jorge’s ear. “Shouldn’t you, as a top athlete, have better stamina?” 

Jorge doesn’t grace him with an answer to that question. Instead, there’s this serious air to him again, a shift in the atmosphere. 

Valentino doesn’t understand it. 

Quietly, he waits, without moving from the spot, searching for something on Jorge’s face, though, he doesn’t know what exactly. Did he do something wrong? Said the wrong thing? He doesn’t think so, but who knows? Jorge’s so complicated. He might’ve as well. 

This time, it’s Jorge who breaks the silence. He tilts his head up, his fingers closing into a fist on the collar of Valentino’s shirt. The words are meant to sound firm, but instead, they come out a little unsteady. “I’m not going to be your toy.”

His voice is rough, rougher than usual, as if meeting some obstacles on its way out from the vocal chords. It’s supposed to sound standoffish, too, surely that’s how Jorge intends it to be, but the _I don’t want to get hurt_ sneaks in there against his will.

And Valentino catches it. 

It’s the make it or break it moment, his response crucial to the shape that their relationship will take after today – whether it’s their last meeting, or if there will be many more. Valentino’s aware of all that. He also knows what his answer should be. What he wants it to be. Coincidentally, they also happen to be identical. 

Valentino catches Jorge’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “I like you,” he tells Jorge, honest. “You have the worst sense of fashion, and you can be a prick, but I like you anyway.” 

To go along with the words, he pushes his lips against Jorge’s again, softly this time, and smiles into the kiss when he feels the smaller man’s body relax. And it’s a good answer, the right one, since he feels himself being pulled closer, strong arms encircling his waist. 

From then on, it goes fast. Soon, his shirt is on the floor, while Jorge’s lands on the back of the chair, on the verge of falling from it. It doesn’t matter, as the only thing that does is Jorge’s nails leaving marks on his back while he pulls down on the fly of the pants he himself designed. 

“Can’t believe you like my clothes so much,” Valentino whispers against the side of Jorge’s neck as he drags the fabric down his legs. He pulls back for a second, wanting to get a look at Jorge’s silhouette now that he’s allowed to stare openly. Finally. And the chuckle escapes him on its own, the view something he wouldn’t have ever expected. “Can’t believe you like the underwear I design, either.”

He slides his finger beneath the band of Jorge’s boxers, eyes locked on the yellow VR46 printed on it. The flush on Jorge’s cheeks is beautiful, and any words of protest die on Jorge’s lips when Valentino touches his cock through the fabric, squeezing lightly.

“Stop talking,” Jorge growls, yanking on Valentino’s own pants. 

Valentino lets him, and he thinks it could’ve been relief flashing on Jorge’s face when he didn’t put up any protest, allowing Jorge to do as he pleased.

“Okay,” he agrees, grinning at Jorge’s surprise. “I’d rather hear you, anyway.”

To prove this, he rolls one Jorge’s nipples between his fingers, his other hand pulling Jorge’s underwear off and wrapping around Jorge’s cock. That moan falling from Jorge’s lips, Valentino loves it a whole lot. 

He quickly finds out that Jorge likes biting, sinking teeth into whatever spot Valentino allows him to; it fits Jorge’s character quite well. Valentino’s sure that there will be multiple purple splotches on his neck. Maybe he’ll have to wear a turtleneck or even a scarf for the few next days, but it’s worth it. Not to mention that Jorge’s really talented with his mouth, too, quickly finding that spot behind Valentino’s ear that makes him groan, loud. 

It takes very little for their clothes to land on the ground, and Valentino doesn’t feel bad in the slightest that his own work is getting wrinkled and crumpled. He’s too busy trying to get those groans and moans out of Jorge, enjoying how Jorge arches his back, how Valentino has nails digging into his shoulder when he twists his wrist the right way. 

He scatters kisses along Jorge’s jaw, then moving lower, down the neck and to the collarbones. He doesn’t fail to notice the pale scars there, long healed and faint, but still there. The brief _you must’ve been through a lot_ passes through his mind, so he finds himself being more gentle that he’d normally be, nipping at Jorge’s skin rather than biting, careful. 

“Get to it. Or do you need a special invitation?” Jorge pants, his voice wavering. 

“Patience, Yorg,” Valentino says, but the kiss that follows, meshing their lips together, tongues tangled, tells just how little patience he himself has. 

However, he does as Jorge asked, throwing the sketches that were on the desk aside, to Jorge’s amusement. 

“Hop on it,” he tells Jorge, breaking away from his mouth for a moment. Valentino takes a moment to admire the curve of his ass, not able to resist the temptation to give it a pat, the flesh soft under his palms. 

“You have anything?” Jorge asks, propped on his elbows. “I’m not letting you fuck me dry.”

“I can call Marc and make him go grab something.” Valentino laughs at Jorge’s look of horror. “Don’t worry, I have something.” 

He goes over to the corner of the room, to where his backpack is, and opens the zipper, sticking a hand inside. There aren’t many things there, a wallet and a spare umbrella, because the weather’s been rather capricious lately. He finds the plastic bottle easily, showing it to Jorge and smiling in triumph. 

Jorge’s reaction is not the one Valentino counted on.

Jorge narrows his eyes, his face twisting into a scowl. “Do you fuck all of your boytoys here that you’ve come prepared?”

Valentino needs to resist to make a joke how _you will be the one coming_ , as it seems like Jorge really has a moment of doubt. He shakes the bottle a little, before uncapping it. “I’ve never had a boytoy, not my thing. I only bought this lube today,” he says, pointing to the plastic container. “And to be honest, I didn’t expect to use it with anyone.” 

He gives Jorge another kiss, gentle, letting the fingers of his hand run down Jorge’s body, caressing the skin on the inside of his thighs. 

Jorge lays on his back again, the tension leaving his muscles. “Get on with it, then” he orders, hissing when the cool gel makes contact with his body. Valentino’s doing pretty well at distracting him, though, with the right touches and the right words, a gentle bite on the shell of Jorge’s ear. 

“Okay?” Valentino asks, to which Jorge’s hips buck, and he lets out a drawn out moan.

It seems like he is okay, that’s how Valentino interprets it, so he crooks his fingers a little more and revels in the reaction it gets him again. 

It turns out that Jorge is rather bossy in bed. Or rather on the desk, as there is no bed nearby and the only sheets around are those of paper, filled with various designs, each worse than the previous one. It’s another one of Jorge’s orders, along with the hand gripping Valentino’s wrist, that makes him pause what he was doing, look up. Jorge’s movements are tinged with impatience when he tears through the shiny foil, taking the condom out of it. 

“I hope this whole thing won’t be so quick,” Valentino chuckles, observing how the wrapper lands on the floor. 

Jorge bites him in revenge for the teasing. 

And Valentino’s quick to shut up when Jorge pulls him closer, rolls the latex down his cock. It’s Jorge’s moment of triumph, although the flushed cheeks and accelerated breathing influence the smug image quite a bit. 

The sounds Jorge makes, the whimpers mixed with growls, along with the nails forming red lines down his back, it’s all makes Valentino lightheaded, makes the blood rush in his veins. He tries to angle his hips properly, eyes fixated on Jorge’s expressions, telling him when he’s doing something right and when he’s doing something _very right._ And the man is gorgeous, even more so when he’s a panting, writhing mess, like right now. 

It’s Jorge who starts trembling first, his face contorted in pleasure, thighs shaking and the groan of what Valentino thinks was supposed to be his name leaves Jorge’s lips. He follows soon after, just a few more thrusts, lacking rhythm as he’s no longer able to focus on it, before the bliss spreads through every cell of his body.

They’re both panting, but Valentino cannot resist the urge to push their lips together, slowly, the rush they were earlier in now gone. Jorge catches him by the arm, and they must look truly ridiculous, lying together on a desk, sweaty and spent, but both smiling. 

Valentino moves only after Jorge cringes, noting their dishevelled appearances. Thankfully, he has a small packet of tissues, because he really wouldn’t want to ask Marc to bring him some, so he cleans the mess they’ve made, both from Jorge’s stomach and the desk. Jorge’s shivering a little, goosebumps on his forearms, so Valentino embraces him, sighing appreciatively when Jorge rests his head on Valentino’s shoulder. 

They break away after some time, a short moment of bliss. Valentino opens the wardrobe, taking something out, and gives Jorge a fresh shirt, one of his new designs. “Here, it’s yours.”

Jorge spreads the fabric between his fingers, judging it. He scrunches eyebrows, a small wrinkle forming between them, before he pulls the shirt down his body. “Thanks.” 

Valentino’s amazed by Jorge’s ability to look good in those awful clothes. 

“You know what?” he says after a while, when they’ve calmed down properly, “We haven’t eaten that dinner you promised me a few months ago.”

Jorge scrunches his eyebrows, thinking, before it clicks, what Valentino’s taking about. “I didn’t promise you anything,” he protests. “But I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let you take me out for dinner. You’re paying.” 

Valentino kisses that smirk off Jorge’s face. 

He has no objections.

*

Next day, Valentino doesn’t get to go inside his office, as a clearly emotional Marc stops him, the expression on his face of pure disbelief. 

Valentino rises an eyebrow, but he remains silent. He doesn’t plan on asking what this is all about, whatever Marc wants to say, Marc has to say himself. But it’s true that his interest is piqued, so he tiltls his head and waits.. 

“Maverick just told me I shouldn’t book you any meetings later today because you’re apparently going out with Jorge Lorenzo,” Marc says, blinking slowly. 

“That’s right.” Valentino nods, eyes moving towards his phone where a new message from Jorge flashes on the screen. “We’re dating now. And I’m going to the gala next week. Someone needs to dress him properly.”

“But-,” Marc splutters, and it’s too funny, the fish taken out of the water expression he has, mouth and eyes both wide open. “I know I joked that you liked him. But you said you wouldn’t ever date someone who wore the clothes you designed.” 

The look on his face is almost that of a betrayal. 

Valentino smiles. What Marc is saying is true, and a rule he still holds dear to his heart. His taste in lovers isn’t that bad. There’s one tiny detail Marc is missing, though, small but crucial in the situation. 

Slowly, Valentino grins. “He wasn’t wearing the clothes I designed. I took them off him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
